


Not all bad

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 21:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10671579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos's birthday goes badly, then not so badly. He's lonely, then not so lonely. They sing karaoke. There is brunch. Brunch is important.





	Not all bad

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: loneliness

Porthos hasn’t had a group of friends in a while, so he’s excited about his birthday and inviting them all over for drinks. He even has a flat, right now, not just a room, so he just sends out a facebook invite for them to come over, bring a bottle, and have an evening with him. They’re all in their late twenties, early thirties, so he makes it an early one, buys an eight pack of beer, a couple of bottles of wine, and some snacks. He gets home from work, showers and changes quickly in case anyone’s early, then sets things up. He runs the vacuum over the living-room, ten minutes before seven, the time people are due to arrive. Sets out the glasses, clears up some books and the TV guide that he left out thinking it didn’t much matter. He cleans the sides in the kitchen. 

He keeps cleaning and tidying up and doesn’t check the clock, but by seven forty, checking the clock is unnecessary, he knows it’s late. He texts Jack, and Liz. The others are people from work whose number he’s not got yet, they usually just arrange stuff at work. Drinks, cinema, coffee. Porthos goes on facebook and checks, but nine out of eleven people accepted, and when he talked about it at work they were all still planning on coming. Jack texts back at eight oh five. 

// sorry mate, something came up. I’m with Ed, he’s not gonna make it either, really sorry. Have a good one //

Ed from work. Who he met Jack through. Porthos likes Jack. Something came up, though, fair enough. Porthos texts back with a smiley and a picture of his popped can of beer. As if he’s having a good time and not sitting in his living-room. Alone. An hour after people were expected. Liz just sends a ‘babysitter cancelled’. She doesn’t even have kids. He’s known Liz for nearly two years, the entire time he’s been in this stupid horrible lonely-ass city. He slumps into the sofa, gulps down his beer, and rings Charon. 

“Hey, happy birthday mate, having a good one?” Charon answers. “No, no. Not there, don’t- Damn it. Sorry, we’re moving my stuff over to Freddie’s. No, I’m not mad, it’s just plates. Oh. I’m a bit upset about that one, that’s the photo Porthos gave me.”

“Char?” Porthos says. 

“Yeah?” Charon says. “You okay? You sound a bit congested, do you still have that cold? Aw, Fred, c’mon. No, I didn’t- I’m sorry, Porthos, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, on your birthday, yeah?”

“Okay,” Porthos says. 

“Babe, are you upset?”

Porthos opens his mouth to say yes, to admit everything, but then Charon hangs up, and Porthos realises he was talking to Fred. He thinks about ringing Flea, but she’s still in Greece, doing her thing at the refugee camps. She rarely answers. Porthos tries her anyway, hopefully, but she doesn’t pick up. He’s crying now, so he sniffs and tries to wipe the tears away. He checks Facebook again and finds a message from Len saying he wasn’t going to make it, but nothing else. Porthos pops another beer. It’s half past eight, now, no one’s going to show. Porthos drinks half the can, then sits against the sofa, eyes shut. He hasn’t felt this lonely for years. No, that’s not true, he felt just about as lonely last year, and at Christmas, and Christmas last year, and over the summer when everyone was going on holiday and doing fun things and he hadn’t even had the money to go see Charon. Porthos is close to sobbing now Which is, of course, when the doorbell rings. Porthos assumes it’s a neighbour reporting a mis-posted parcel or something, but he goes to the kitchen to splash his face and tries to clean up a bit. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the tremors, and goes to open the door. His boss is standing on the other side, in his neat suit, beard and hair trimmed, a bunch of flowers tucked in one arm, a bottle of wine. He grimaces at Porthos and sighs, giving him a sympathetic smile. 

“Hi,” Porthos says. “Uh.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t invite me and then forget about it, and I’m not staying. I just overheard people talking, when you clocked off early, and realised no one was planning to show. I thought I would… I don’t know. Wine, flowers, card,” Athos says, passing them over. “I’ve spent enough birthdays alone to know it’s nice not to be forgotten.”

Porthos takes everything, realises he’s shaking, and tries to pass them back. Athos takes the flowers and card, confused, but the bottle slips from Porthos’s hand and shatters on the floor. Porthos, already shaky as fuck, trips over himself apologising and trying to pick it up. 

“Hey, hey. You’re gonna cut yourself. Take a breath, hmm?” Athos says, crouching. “Are you alright? I mean, I know you’re not great. I would’ve come earlier, but, I actually couldn’t reasonably skip that meeting. But you’re really shaking, there.”

“I-I-I,” Porthos says, then takes a deep breath.

“Alright. Clearly not okay. Come over to the sofa, tell me where I can find something to clear that up.”

Porthos shakes his head, but when Athos guides him to the sofa he sinks into it. Athos finds the dustpan and brush, a cloth, some kitchen towel, and some paper to wrap the glass in, all by himself. Porthos tries to say no, again, but Athos is already busy clearing up, humming to himself. So Porthos sits on the sofa and cries. 

“All done. Is there someone I can call?” Athos asks, perching on the coffee table. “I’m willing to leave you alone if you’d prefer that, but I’m also willing to stay, or call someone to come over. I’ve had the impression, so far, that you haven’t got many people here.”

“Charon,” Porthos snuffles, shrugging. He doesn’t have any people at all. Not even one.

Athos finds the number on Porthos’s phone, and Porthos hears it ringing. 

“Hey, Porthos, what’s up?” Charon says. Athos has it on speaker. “You called like twenty minutes ago. You okay?”

“He isn’t,” Athos says. “He’s shaking and his teeth are chattering.”

“They’re n-n-not,” Porthos tries, but Athos is right. 

“Aw, Pip. Okay, who are you? Are you one of his birthday guests?” Charon asks. 

“Yes, let’s go with that for now,” Athos says. 

“There should be a really soft blanket on the back of the sofa?”

“Yes,” Athos says. He holds the phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling the blanket around Porthos. 

“Hey, Pip. How’re you doing?”

“I’ll go in the kitchen, or leave,” Athos says. “Make you some tea, maybe?”

Charon laughs at that, and suggests Athos make him toasted cheese. Athos goes, and Prothos feels a wave of complete misery washing over him. He buries himself in the blanket and sobs. 

“Pip,” Charon whispers. “What happened? You were upset, earlier, when you called? Why didn’t you say? I know I was distracted, but still. That bloke seemed nice.”

Porthos tells Charon what happened, through crying like he’s small again, trying to keep it quite so as not to let Athos hear. Eventually, though, Athos comes back and admits he can’t just ignore the distressed sounds. Charon suggests a hug, which Porthos wants to say no to as Athos is his boss. Sort of. He doesn’t say no, though, he leans into Athos and shuts his eyes and listens to Charon and pretends it’s Charon there. Athos holds him tighter, with both arms. Porthos sighs, and falls into a light doze. He wakes to a stuffy head, acute embarrassment, and Athos’s thigh under his head. Charon is still on speaker, and Freddie’s on too, and Athos is laughing. Porthos isn’t sure he’s heard Athos laugh before. 

“What’re you all being so pally about?” he grumbles, sitting up. 

“You’re awake!” Charon cries happily. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Sorry boss.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Athos says. “Why do you think I have the most boring job in the world? I’ve had my share of panic attacks on randomers’ shoulders.”

“He was telling us about freaking out in Tescos because they changed the layout,” Freddie says. “He bought eight bags of Doritos.”

“I talked to Flea, sweetheart,” Charon says. “She’s going to give you a call tomorrow, is that okay? I’ll call tomorrow too.”

“Yeah, ‘s’fine. I’m fine,” Porthos says. “I drank three beers and a glass of wine.”

“Yep, Athos found the cans,” Charon says. 

“Thank you,” Porthos whispers, fervent and intense and feeling horribly like he’s going to cry again. 

“Did you look at the card yet?” Freddie asks, sounding amused. 

“God, don’t!” Athos says, pulling it out of the way. 

Porthos reaches for it, and Athos lets him, his cheeks flushing. Inside it just has an x. That’s it. Just an x. Porthos gapes. 

“I was trying to write it surreptitiously in that meeting,” Athos says. “I couldn’t think of anything appropriate, and once that was on there, there was nothing I could do to get it off, and I thought it’d be better if there was nothing else, maybe then it would look like it was in there without my writing it.”

“... right… I can see why you’re adamant I be less embarrassed about weeping all over you,” Porthos says. Then he takes a long shuddering breath. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll be back in a minute okay?”

Porthos goes to the bathroom and lies on the floor for a while in the dark. He could’ve just had Athos leave, and Charon hang up, but he wants them there. He doesn’t want to be alone. He lies in the dark and breathes and cries and then he pulls himself together. He’s stuck there for nearly half an hour, and when he wobbles out, Athos is sat on the sofa. There’s a glass of water and a plate of toast on the table, a blister pack of paracetamol. Porthos slumps beside Athos, trying to surreptitiously work out how much he smells of sweat and damp. He’s still wearing his good trousers and fancy top. 

“Charon and Fred had to go,” Athos says. “Something about an escaped chicken. I didn’t really understand.”

“Charon has a pet chicken. There is no explanation except that he’s Charon,” Porthos says. 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks. 

“Yeah, sorry, alcohol and emotions,” Porthos makes an exploding noise and Athos laughs. “Thanks, for sticking around. And clearing up the wine. And the card, and the flowers, and for coming at all.”

“Sure. I like you, you’re the only person at work who’s company I can actually stand,” Athos says. “My partner says I’m not a people person, but now I have definitely proof that it’s the people, and not me. They’re obviously arseholes.”

Athos sounds very happy about that. Porthos, not so much. He knows that crying and panicking and generally being a hot mess is not attractive, but Athos is attractive. Fluffy and short and lovely and strong. And he has a partner. 

“Aramis. He’s quite nice, I suppose. A bit ridiculous and dramatic,” Athos says. “Do you want to meet him? Oh my god, I am so terrible at this. I did not mean to gatecrash your party, or take advantage of your being upset to push forward my Make Friends With The Nice Lawyer from HR plan.”

“Not much of a party to crash,” Porthos says. “And it’s not like I have enough friends to say no to such an offer.”

“I suppose,” Athos says. “Still. It’s a little tactless. Aramis wanted to come seduce you. He thought it would be a nice birthday cheer up.”

“What?”

“Oh, we’re poly. Aramis is pretty much impossible,” Athos says. “Oh sorry! I’m over sharing. I’m your boss, this is really, really inappropriate! I had a couple of glasses of your wine. Sorry about that, too. Charon talked me into it.”

“Yeah, he’s skilled at doing that,” Porthos says. “Have at it, I certainly shouldn’t drink it. Be doing me a favour.”

Athos takes him at his word, and pours himself another glass. He chatters about financial reports. At first, Porthos thinks it’s because he doesn’t have anything to say, or to keep himself from blabbering about his personal life. It slowly dawns on Porthos, though, that Athos is genuinely interested in the financial reports. He is an accountant, technically, so it sort of makes sense. He’s head of accounts, at work. Porthos answers to him for the financial stuff he draws up. 

“Oh, Aramis texted, hang on,” Athos says, mid-stream. “Ah. He’s coming over. He thinks I sound drunk and shouldn’t be driving.”

“He’s right,” Porthos says, yawning. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll ignore any attempts at seduction. Too tired to be seduced anyway.”

“Will you be okay on your own?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, with a smile, looking up at Athos. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m usually a functional adult who manages just fine on their own. Most of the time. It was just crying. I manage fine.”

“If a bit lonely-ly,” Athos says, sighing, looking drunk-sad. Like an imitation of a sad emoticon. “I was very lonely, before Aramis came along. And d’Artagnan, of course.”

“Is that another boyfriend?” Porthos asks. Athos boggles at him. “d’Artagnan, I mean.”

Athos bursts out laughing. 

“Good lord! No! He’s my… I dunno, sister’s husband’s cousin’s kid, or something. Some extended family shit. He came to the ‘big city’ from rural Wales, and I was supposed to keep a watch on him. I got him into bags of trouble, and he lives with us, now. He’s nice. I like him,” Athos says. 

“Not a boyfriend,” Porthos says, checking, his sleepy brain not really keeping up. 

“No. Aramis has a girlfriend at the moment, I think? Not sure. We look pretty monogamous currently,” Athos says. He jumps up when the doorbell goes, and flings open the door with a cry of “Aramis!”

“Hello, drunkard,” Aramis says, stepping into view. 

He’s… he’s very handsome. He shakes rain out of his hair, and he has amazing hair, and he’s dressed very nicely, and his eyes are bright, and he’s smiling, and really, Porthos might be a little seduced afterall. He shakes his own head and gets up, making for the door to thank Athos again, a little wobbly with tiredness and post-crying-jag light headedness.. 

“You drunk, too?” Aramis says. “Good. That means it was a good party.”

“It was a fucking sad party,” Athos says, wrapping his arms around Aramis’s waist. 

“Christ, I’m sorry, Porthos. He doesn’t drink much anymore,” Aramis says, trying to pry Athos off. “Ath! You’re in someone else’s house! Be polite!”

“No. I am having the cuddles,” Athos says. 

Porthos leans on the back of the sofa and laughs. 

“Wow. I am never looking at you the same way again. Grouchy and cold you are not,” Porthos says. 

“Mm,” Aramis says. “Is that what he’s like at work?”

“Nah, not really. He gets me coffee and showed me around when I was new, and has actually been more than kind. Just what people say,” Porthos says. 

“You ready to go home, babes?” Aramis asks. 

“Uh-huh. We should bring Porthos with us. His friends didn’t come at all, not even one, and I don’t think they even told him. He has a very nice friend called Charon, who lit up a blunt while on the phone. I told him I used to be a cop and he nearly choked. It was awesome.”

“Sorry I missed that,” Porthos says. 

“Yeah, you were crying then,” Athos says. “Charon didn’t seem too worried, so I left you to it.”

“Thanks,” Porthos says, looking at the ground. 

“Wow, you had a really rotten birthday,” Aramis says. “Come to lunch with us, tomorrow. Or, brunch. Athos loves brunch, he thinks it’s posh.”

“Aw,” Athos says. “I do like brunch. There’s a place that makes me pancakes. With bacon.”

“Um,” Porthos says, hesitating.

“I insist. Did you give him our numbers, Ath?” Aramis says.

“They’re in his phone. Both of ours,” Athos says. “Home, now. I’m tired, baby.”

“Are you tired, or are you a tired baby?” Aramis says. 

“Shh. Home,” Athos says, sounding strangled and scandalised. 

Aramis reaches out to shake Porthos’s hand and Athos turns to give Porthos’s stomach a pat, and then they’re gone. Porthos closes the door on them and sighs, heading back to the sofa. His phone rings, and Flea’s name comes up. He smiles and puts her on speaker, lying down. 

“Thought you’d still be awake,” Flea says. “Charon told me it was a bad night.”

“Not terrible,” Porthos says. “I think I might’ve made some actual friends, in the end.”

“Oh?” Flea says. “Tell me about it?”

“Another time. I’m crashing.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you about my stuff, then, yeah?”

“Nothing sad.”

“No, happy things.”

“Yeah. Happy things.”

She tells him about the music she’s making with people, the article she’s writing, her blog, her youtube channel. He’s awfully fond and proud of her, and he falls asleep lulled by her, by the thought of Charon staying on the phone for hours, of Athos sticking around, of his flowers, of brunch. Not a bad birthday, in the end. 

**

“You, my friend, are a muffin,” Aramis announces. 

They’re at brunch. Porthos is quite cheerful. He spent this morning Skyping with either Flea and Charon. There were also presents from both of them to open, ordered to arrive exactly on the day because they knew he’d open them as soon as they arrived. Which he had. New books, a big jumper, a CD, and a stuffed frog to add to his collection. As well as a Waitrose voucher, from Freddie, with the instruction to splash out on nice things. So he’s quite cheerful, and perfectly happy to be called a muffin. Especially as Aramis has brought out some muffins, along with the refills of coffee he went in for. It’s sunny enough to sit outside, and they are doing. 

“Okay,” Porthos says, reaching for a muffin. 

“Uh-uh,” Aramis says. “That one is for you, my little muffin.”

He gives Porthos a specific muffin, and then sits, watching Porthos expectantly. Porthos bites into it. It’s blueberry, which is his favourite, but nothing special. He frowns, and takes another bite, enjoying it but not understanding the spark in Aramis’s eye. Maybe he has a food fetish or something. He seems the sort. Porthos takes a big bite, deciding whatever it is it doesn’t need to concern him, and bites into a chocolate, gooey, centre. He moans. 

“There,” Aramis says, soothing and calm, rubbing Porthos’s shoulder. “That’s good, isn’t it? See, you’re a muffin.”

“Leave him alone,” Athos says, around a mouthful of pancakes. “He’s being a wanker, Porthos. This is the bit where he tries to seduce you, with food.”

“I knew it were a food fetish thing,” Porthos mumbles, which makes both Aramis and Athos laugh. 

He doesn’t stop with the muffin, or worry about Aramis’s thumb rubbing on the back of his neck, or Aramis sitting very close. It’s clearly just a thing Aramis does. Porthos sets about the serious business of breakfast. They can call it brunch all they like, but Porthos never gets up before ten on a Sunday, so eleven o’clock is breakfast time. He’s got a fry up, and the muffin, and endless coffee, and Aramis and Athos are easy, kind company. 

“You know,” Athos says, later, Aramis retreated inside to use the bathroom, “I wouldn’t mind if you let him seduce you. He’s semi-serious, he thinks you’re very, um, what was the word he used… smokin’.”

Athos does a passable and hilarious imitation of Aramis. 

“Um,” Porthos says, after laughing. “I’m not really up for much today. Just want to… it’s just nice to have people to have breakfast with.”

“Brunch.”

“Right. Brunch. Only it’s breakfast, because it’s early.”

“It’s nearly one pm.”

“Yeah, okay. I don’t really want to be seduced by Aramis, don’t wanna sleep with him or anything. Just,” Porthos shuts his eyes, and feels like crying again. 

“Hey,” Athos says. “You don’t HAVE to sleep with my daft boyfriend. I just meant if you liked.”

“It’ll take more than a muffin to get in my pants,” Porthos says, bravely, and Athos laughs, resting his elbows on the table and covering his face. And Porthos really likes that. Really likes a lot of things about Athos. He sighs. “I’m tired, Athos. I’m not keen on my job, I have no friends here, my support system’s still all back home, or gone off to do good in the wide world.”

“Why did you move?” Athos asks. “Not that I mean that as an accusation.”

“I followed someone here,” Porthos says, grimacing. “It’s all a bit embarrassing really. I thought I had a job, but it fell through, and without it my flat fell through, and then, well. I suppose Ben was always gonna dump me.”

“That’s a tragic story for a sunny Sunday,” Aramis says, strolling back out, flopping down next to Athos. 

“Stomach settled?” Athos asks, giving Aramis’s stomach a fond pat. 

“You didn’t tell him what coffee does to me, did you?” Aramis says, groaning.

“No,” Athos says. 

“Oh,” Aramis says. Porthos laughs, and starts making noises about heading off now that they’re all finished. Aramis yawns. “You should come to ours, I was planning on curling up and watching TV.”

“You still feeling sick, baby?” Athos asks. 

“No, but it’s Sunday,” Aramis says. “Athos makes good toasties, we can eat that for lunch, watch something fun.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to go home. Still feeling a bit tired. I’ll see you Monday, yeah, Athos?” 

Athos nods, and they say warm goodbyes. Porthos looks back once, and sees Athos kissing Aramis’s stomach, then sitting up to kiss him properly. He feels a small ache, wanting that for himself. He heads back to his empty flat and crashes out on the sofa. He had a nice brunch, though, and he now has two entire friends. He sends Flea a thumbs up emoji, and rings Charon. 

“Yo. Fred’s doing his famous shepherd’s pie,” Charon says, on answering. “We miss you, chubs.”

“Don’t call m’that,” Porthos says, face in the sofa cushions.

“You sound glum, chum.”

“You sound lively, you cock-womble,” Porthos says. 

“Lively and cock-womble don’t rhyme,” Charon says. Cheerfully. With extra cheer just to annoy Porthos. “Are you okay, dolly?”

“I had brunch with the nice lot who were over yesterday.”

“Athos? I liked him,” Charon says. “Did you eat too much or something?”

“No,” Porthos says, trying to sound pathetic. 

“Are you actually feeling bad, or are you just wanting fuss?” Charon asks. “No, babe, just Porthos… go on then, if you’re having another.”

“Christ, you’re actually merry, aren’t you? Why are you drinking on Sunday morning?”

“It’s afternoon, and we’re having wine with lunch, because we’re middle class and that’s what we middle classers do. Look, you’re clearly miserable. Why don’t you take a bit off work, come up and visit us?”

“Can’t. I’ve had time off, last month to see you”

“Fine, I’ll take off work and visit you.”

“Nooooo,” Porthos moans. “Don’ visit.”

“Come on, dolly, let me help. You helped me, when I was crashing and burning and had no money and tried to knock myself off. Oops, sorry Freddie, it was a long time ago. Pip, I need to go.”

“Yeah, prob’ly do, eh? Daft git. Go soothe Fred. Then come visit me.”

“You are dramatic,” Charon says. “Love ya, mate. See you soon. Not today, though, because I’m not barmy.”

“Bye.”

**

Porthos naps for most of the afternoon, sleeps badly, stumbles through Monday, sleeps not at all, and then takes Tuesday off as a sick day, to catch up. He’s napping on the sofa, the TV on in the background, when the front door opens. He yelps, thinking someone’s breaking into his house, leaps off the sofa and runs at the intruder. It’s just Charon though. 

“Shit, man, you scared the living daylights out of me! Why are you shouting? God, calm the fuck down you twat!” Charon says, stumbling back into the door, a bag over his shoulder.

“You’re here!” Porthos yells.

Charon starts to laugh, and Porthos joins in and Charon hugs him, still laughing. 

“Good to see you, you wazzock,” Charon says. “What are you doing home?”

“I called out sick, haven’t been sleeping.”

“You neurotic pancake,” Charon says. “How’s Athos?”

“Fine, far as I know. He was his usual sarcastic self at work yesterday.”

“You do okay with the twats who didn’t show up?”

“I just smiled and nodded when they asked if I had a nice time. They all know no one showed up. I did have a good time, sort of, and brunch really was good, so it wasn’t hard. I did have a nice birthday,” Porthos says. Then he sighs. “Char, I really hate this feeling. The one where people don’t want me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Charon says. He guides Porthos to the sofa and Porthos sinks down, Charon wraps him in the soft blanket and holds him for a while. 

“I’ve got you, dolly,” Charon says.

“Where’d dolly come from?” Porthos asks.

“Freddie calls me ‘dolly’,” Charon says. “Alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” Porthos says. “I still haven’t found a therapist I like here.”

“Two years, chubs.”

“‘m’not chubby anymore.”

“You are getting a bit, actually,” Charon says, sounding delighted about it. He’s got a hand on Porthos’s stomach. Porthos shoves at him. “It’s affectionate.”

“I’ve tried a few. I’ll have another look around,” Porthos says. “I can afford it again, on this job. But only if I keep the job.”

“Is it that bad?” Charon asks. 

“Nah, I’ll get over it. Just a bit stressful right now. I need to… I dunno, calm down or something. Will you sleep in with me? Like when we were little?”

“‘course.”

The laze around the afternoon, eat chips for dinner, catch up.Charon stays with him the night, camping out on the floor in the bedroom with the inflatable mattress. It helps Porthos sleep, knowing Charon’s there to wake him from any nightmares. He goes back to work on Wednesday, rested and with renewed equilibrium. The misery and loneliness of recent weeks is lifted, and he actually smiles happily when people ask him about his birthday and tell them how good it was and the gifts he got. People seem pleased for him but mostly relieved, because they’re dicks. Porthos cheerfully thinks of them as dicks and work suddenly feels much more do-able. Charon comes to meet him at the end of the day, popping into the office where he’s writing out a new contract, copying across some stuff from the old one, using some notes head of HR has left him. 

“Hey dolly,” Charon says, coming in. “Found you.”

“Hi,” Porthos says. “Sit. Five mins.”

Charon sits, flipping open his laptop and getting on with his own work. 

“Porthos, did you check that account for me yet?” Athos asks, wandering in with a mug of coffee. “You’re new. Why are you new? Who left? Why does no one tell me anything?”

“Athos, Charon, Charon, Athos,” Porthos says. “And shush, both of you.”

Athos and Charon chat quietly while Porthos scribbles some notes and types up the final section. He locates Athos’s file and flips it open to check it’s all there and doesn’t need explaining, before passing it over and stretching out his back. 

“Thanks,” Athos says. “Aramis wants me to bring you home for dinner on Friday. You’re welcome too, Charon.”

“Can’t,” Porthos says, mind whirling. “Sorry. We’ve got plans Friday. Maybe another night, tell him. Come on Char. I’ll see you tomorrow Athos.”

Athos waves the folder and strolls back out. Charon raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth, so Porthos pulls him away from the office, before he can get any words out. Charon’s laughing at him when they get to street level. 

“Why are we lying about our plans, Pip?” Charon asks, linking their arms and walking towards the bus stop. 

“I’m playing hard to get. Obviously,” Porthos grumbles. 

“Uh-huh. You’re what?” Charon asks. 

“Fine, I panicked,” Porthos says, shaking Charon off. “I thought maybe he’s asking me out, but then thought probably not, and then thought what a shame, and then panicked.” 

Charon laughs and laughs, holding Porthos’s shoulder. Eventually he manages to get hold of himself. At least it’s fond laughter. And familiar. Porthos gives him a grin. 

“It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with them?” Charon checks, still highly amused.

“No. How’s the new house?”

Charon talks about Freddie for a while, then changes to complaining about Freddie, happy and smug about all the little things that annoy him. 

**

Porthos gets home a bit late on Friday, after Athos dumps a pile of work on him last minute. He kicks off his shoes and sighs. Charon must be cooking, it smells good. He pads through to the kitchen, opens his mouth to complain about work, then shuts it again. Athos, Aramis, and Charon are sat around the kitchen table, all with glasses of red wine. Charon toasts him, looking a little sheepish. Mostly smug again, though.

“Hi,” Porthos says. 

“Surprise dinner guests,” Aramis says, putting his wine down to do jazz hands. “Tada!”

“Nice to see you. Charon? Living room?”

Charon gives him another apologetic look, in the living room. Porthos hugs him, giving him a squeeze. 

“Oh! Okay,” Charon says. “This is better than being shouted at.”

“You sly bastard,” Porthos says. “Thanks.”

“Love you, mate,” Charon says. “You’re breaking my ribs, though. And I need to check the chicken.”

“You did a roast?” Porthos says, letting him go instantly and returning to the kitchen, poking about Charon’s cooking. “Mm. You DID do a roast. Did you do your gravy?”

“Yes. Sit down, have a small glass of wine, be a good host,” Charon says. “There are nibbles out.”

Porthos sits, and stuffs his face with the crisps from the table. Aramis laughs and him and pours him wine, and Athos gives him a smug look. 

“You arse,” Porthos says. “That was just to keep me at work?”

“Sorry,” Athos says, looking anything but. “Your friend thought it a good idea.”

“It were a good idea. Don’t mean you’re not all complete twats,” Porthos says. 

“Eat,” Charon says, sliding a breadboard with a bowl of oil and vinegar onto the table. “He’ll be less grouchy when he’s not hungry.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Aramis asks, helping himself to bread.

“A long time,” Charon says. 

“We got dumped in foster care the same time, and he hit me with a tennis ball in a sock, so I stole his stuffed bear, which made him cry,” Porthos says. “And then he hit me with a huge metal firetruck.”

“It was a little firetruck, and it was wooden,” Charon says. 

“Your stories are awesome, Porthos,” Aramis says. “Tell me more.”

“Freddie wants a baby,” Charon says. “There’s a new thought for you.”

“Freddie, a Dad? That’s a terrifying new thought,” Porthos says. 

Charon chats away about Freddie, and Aramis chats away about his nephew, and Athos and Porthos eat bread and sit quietly. Dinner’s quiet, too, Charon and Aramis making most of the conversation. Athos, next to Porthos, is watching him. Porthos shifts, a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but Athos reaches over and rests a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, and his thumb rubs. Porthos relaxes, and Athos smiles at him, hand creeping a little tiny bit higher, then stilling, settling there. It stays all through dinner. 

“Athos?” Porthos asks, later, he and Athos doing the dishes while Aramis and Charon do something loud and enthusiastic in the living room on the wii. 

“Mm?”

“Why didn’t you ever seduce me?”

“I thought doing it by proxy, via Aramis, would be more professional. I’m your boss. It’s a slightly awkward dynamic.”

“Seduction via proxy is no more professional! You’re not my immediate boss anyway. You’re just above me in the hierarchy. I’ve never had much truck with authority, though. Ask Char,” Porthos says. Athos’s lips twitch. 

“Would you like me to seduce you?”

“Oh yeah,” Porthos says. “Very much.”

“What if i just skip to kissing you?”

“Yeah, that’s so not romantic. But, you know what? Okay, I’ll forgive you.”

Athos kisses him, and it’s wonderful. 

**  
Freddie turns up on Friday, for a long weekend, and decides that they are all going to karaoke. All somehow including Athos and Aramis. And d’Artagnan. 

“I love karaoke!” d’Artagnan says, before he’s been introduced, flinging himself at Porthos for a hug of gangly limbs and enthusiasm. 

“He’s only twenty, you’ll have to forgive him being embarrassing,” Aramis says, dragging d’Artagnan into a messy hug, away from Porthos. 

“That’s okay, I too love karaoke and hugs,” Porthos says. 

“Ha! See? I’m not embarrassing,” d’Artagnan says, squirming out of Aramis’s arms and into Porthos’s, which are open and welcoming. 

Athos rolls his eyes and leads them into the bar. They set about getting drunk, first. Athos drinks whiskey, and sits next to Porthos, and they talk while the others do shots and dance and make fools of themselves. Aramis brings Athos a new glass of whiskey now and then, and every time he drops it off with a kiss for each of them. Porthos flushes the first two times, but the third his raises his chin for it and tugs Aramis closer, deepening it, sucking on Aramis’s lip. Aramis stumbles back and wanders off looking a bit dazed, touching his lips. Porthos beams proudly. Charon, sat with a pint, now, and watching Freddie dance with d’Artagnan to someone’s terrible rendition of Stevie Wonder’s Superstition, rolls his eyes when he catches the look on Porthos’s face. 

“Uh oh, Aramis is gonna sing,” Athos says. 

“Is he bad?” Porthos asks, following Athos’s line of sight and seeing Aramis wobbling on the stage, trying to work out the mic. 

“No, just… He always picks…” Athos trails off. “Well, I suppose at least it’s…”

“You’re the twooooo that I want, you’re the twoooo that I want, some girls will settle for just one,” Aramis belts out.

“Enthusiastic,” Porthos says, grinning. “What’s the song?”

“The Roches,” Athos says. “You’re the two. He likes it.”

Porthos laughs when Aramis sings the last bit about trying for three, blowing a kiss at some random woman in the crowd. Who cheers for him. Athos slides his arm around Porthos’s waist, and sips his whiskey, sitting back. Aramis comes crashing over when he’s finished, sitting half on Athos, leaning over to Porthos. 

“I want another kiss like that other one,” Aramis says, breath smelling of alcohol, eyes bright. “I sang a song for you. I should get-”

Porthos cuts him off, holding his chin, cradling the back of his head. He wiggles his eyebrows and Aramis laughs, but Porthos cuts that off, too, doing his best to take Aramis’s breath. When he pulls back Aramis falls dramatically against Athos, panting, beaming at them both. Athos gives his cheek a pat and kisses his hair, then turns to Porthos. 

“Do I have to sing a song, too?” he asks. 

He’s being sarcastic, but Porthos thinks about it, decides he likes the idea, and nods, turning a bit so Athos’s kiss gets his cheek. That delights Aramis. Freddie’s singing ‘Knights in White Satin’, so Athos grumbles. d’Artagnan gets up next and sings ‘Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy’. 

“Pip!” Charon calls, when d’Artagnan’s done. “Come on!”

“Come on where?” Porthos asks. 

Charon grabs him and pulls, though, so Porthos gets up and lets himself be dragged onto stage. He grins, and Porthos knows what’s going to happen next. He sighs, but slings an arm over Charon’s shoulders, and throws himself into the opening of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’. It’s funny how easily it all comes back, including the routine. They fill in Flea’s bits in turn. Porthos stumbles, at the end, wavering.

“Pip?”

“I’m good,” Porthos says, waving him off. He’s happy, and tipsy. He sits with Athos again, taking a few deep breaths, sipping his drink. 

“Right. My turn, I suppose. I’m going to get that kiss,” Athos says, shifting. 

“Wait a bit?” Porthos says. 

“What? I thought you wanted me to sing?” Athos says, sounding outraged. And tipsy. 

“Just sit with me a bit,” Porthos says, putting an arm over his shoulders. 

“I’ll sit with you,” d’Artagnan says, flopping down on Porthos’s other side. “Can I get a cuddle too? I’m drunk.”

Porthos obliges, letting Athos go. Athos pats Porthos’s stomach and then rests his hand there. 

“What?” Porthos asks. “Wait. I am not chubby!”

“Of course not!” d’Artagnan says, curling close. “You’re soft and comfy. It’s lovely.”

Athos laughs, silently, for a really long time. Then he gets up and argues with the guy controlling the backing tracks for a while, before climbing unsteadily onto stage. He sings Tom Waits’ version of ‘Sea of Love’. Porthos laughs himself silly the entire time, unable to help himself. d’Artagnan watches Athos with a warm fond look. 

“Only he would choose Tom Waits to seduce someone,” d’Artagnan says. 

“It’ll work,” Porthos says comfortably, grinning stupidly at Athos. “It’s so working. You got anyone, d’Artagnan?”

“No. The woman I like is firmly married and about six years older than me. She thinks she’s firmly married. I think she’s miserably married.”

“You being respectful of her decisions?” Porthos asks. 

“Yes! She told me she loves me too, but is married, and chooses to stay with him. So, I don’t see her anymore,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m waiting for her to come to her senses.”

“Maybe she’s got her reasons. Maybe she loves him as well as you.”

d’Artagnan scoffs about loving multiple people, so Porthos gestures pointedly to Athos, on stage, shouting something, song finished but not getting down, and then to Aramis, dancing between Fred and Charon, head back, blissful. d’Artagnan snorts. Athos starts singing Tom Waits’ ‘All the World is Green’, without the backing track. The track starts up, someone clearly giving up on Athos leaving in any time but his own and Athos starts again. Porthos laughs, watching Aramis sway to it, arms around himself, eyes on Athos. 

“Fine. Maybe she does. But she’s not poly,” d’Artagnan says. 

“What’s her name?”

“Constance,” d’Artagnan sighs. “Connie.”

“Lovely name. Are you at uni?”

“Mm. Yeah. Doing law at UCL,” d’Artagnan says. “Where did you go?”

“I did evening courses at Manchester Met,” Porthos says. “Took forever, but here I am.”

“I only started this year. My Dad died, when I was eighteen, just as I finished my a-levels. Didn’t want to do anything, so I came and bothered Athos for a bit,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Good choice. Here he comes,” Porthos says, as Athos staggers back over and falls onto the bench, shuffling and dragging himself against Porthos. To Porthos’s surprise he bends and kisses Porthos’s stomach before looking up. 

“Now do I get a kiss?” Athos says. “Two, I did two songs.”

“Yep. They were lovely songs,” Porthos says. 

He’s gentler with Athos than he was with Aramis, guiding rather than insisting, cradling his cheek, smudging under his eye. Athos sinks into it. Two kisses turns into three. Then Aramis comes and interrupts, demanding his own Athos-kisses. 

 

**

He wakes up on Saturday in Athos and Aramis’s bed, between them. He remembers bringing them home, both of them too drunk to manage a taxi on their own without trouble. Or maybe he’d just wanted to come. They’re both still out, Aramis drooling into his pillow, Athos curled with his head on Porthos’s stomach. Porthos pushes the duvet down to get a look at his stomach. It is a little big, maybe. Just a bit soft. He bites his lip, and sends a picture to Charon. 

// is that Athos’s hair? Is he asleep on you? aw//

//I’m fat//

// little bit, lovely too //

Porthos likes that. He sends a smiley. Then he goes on Facebook and chats with Flea for a while, already up and busy and doing her stuff. Aramis wakes up while Porthos is reading about a little girl Flea’s teaching to play the violin. He moans and rolls over, getting up on an elbow, and gives Porthos a gaping-mouthed, pale-faced, look of doom. 

“Morning,” Porthos says. 

“Ghhhrn,” Aramis says. 

Porthos finishes reading Flea’s update and decides a shower is in order, now Arami is awake and can tell him where things are. Showers are the absolute best for hangovers. When he gets back Aramis is sat on the edge of the bed, tentatively sipping water. 

“Better?” Porthos asks. Aramis holds up a thumb and finger about a centimeter apart, sipping carefully. “There’s paracetamol there.”

“My stomach is not happy,” Aramis says. 

“Eat something, that’ll help,” Porthos says, cheerfully, drying himself off. He glances at Aramis to see if he’s watching (he is), and drops the towel, stretching casually. Toast maybe? Mmm, toast, I like toast”

Porthos doesn’t know where the kitchen is, so Aramis comes with him and helps him locate things. Porthos makes him toast with honey on it, and Aramis kisses him in thanks. 

“You could put a pot of coffee on, rouse Athos out of his slumber. What time is it?” Aramis says, sat on the counter with a plate, still looking pale.

“About… one thirty,” Porthos says, checking his phone. There are six new pings on Facebook from Flea. “Hang on.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just Flea’s a bit upset about a kid she’s teaching. Do you have a sofa we could curl up on?”

Aramis does have a sofa. It’s wide, and long, and very soft. Porthos groans when he sinks into it and wonders if he’s ever getting up again. Aramis brings his toast. They put the coffee on before they go through, and Athos joins them after a while, Porthos still listening to Flea on facebook. Mostly just reading what she says and assuring her he’s there and she’s doing great. When Athos sits next to Aramis, Aramis sits up to curl around his stomach.

“Is the coffee bothering you, baby?” Athos asks. 

Aramis shakes his head a bit, then nods. Athos sets his coffee aside and strokes Aramis’s hair, rubbing his shoulders. He looks like he’s actually not feeling well, so Porthos retreats to the kitchen to give them privacy and sits in there until Flea needs to go, sipping water, until Athos comes through.

“Everything okay?” Porthos asks. 

“Aramis has gone back to bed, but he’s fine. He wants more toast. What did you do ? Aramis wants it ‘how Porthos made it’,” Athos says, leaning on the counter.

“I just put honey on. Aren’t you hungover?”

“Horribly.”

Porthos laughs, and takes over toast making. He finds Aramis and Athos in bed, complaining back and forth about being hungover. They’re facing each other and both seem amused. They’re exchanging fond little touches, too. Porthos feels like he’s either an intruder on an intimate scene, or the hired help. He sets the plate of toast on the bedside cabinet, and the sound gets their attention. 

“Porthos! I thought you went home. You didn’t tell me he was still here, Athos,” Aramis says, smiling at Porthos and scowling at Athos. “You didn’t just leave him cater for us, did you?”

“I did,” Athos admits. “Sorry. He’s not hungover. I was dizzy, and my head aches.”

“You’re terrible,” Aramis tells him, shifting away and inviting Porthos in with them. 

Porthos climbs back into bed, and is welcomed warmly by Athos while Aramis eats his toast contentedly. Somehow, from here, the world doesn’t look so bad. Especially with Athos’s mouth doing that right there. Porthos sighs happily.


End file.
